


Solidarity In The Familiar

by VanillaRage



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaRage/pseuds/VanillaRage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has a touch of the nerves as an evening in the Winter Palace admist the snobbery of the Orelisian nobles looms ahead. Iron Bull helps him deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solidarity In The Familiar

Located in Halamshiral under the magnificent shadow of the Winter Palace, is an Inn. It’s the sort of Inn that lines its walls with Orlesian history and the sort of opulent extravagance that is to be expected when its client base is the wealthy and the powerful. The staff is quietly capable, ensuring the comfort of their guests with an efficiency that borders on the paranormal. The slender hands that empty and clean the chamberpots are never seen, and nary a pointed ear is caught by even the most observant as dirty sheets are whisked away and replaced by new. 

The Inn was owned by a distant relative of the Empress; the owner was rarely there, often leaving the day to day operations in the adept hands of Lady de Just. Lady de Just ran the establishment as if she herself were a Queen; not a thing happened within her realm that she wasn’t aware of. No request from their well-connected and often eccentric clientele, no matter how exuberant or ridiculous, was met with nothing less than a confidant smile and the corresponding bill. The reputation of the Chateau de la Lionne had spread to all but the most remote corners of Thedas, and Josephine had scrambled to call in favors to ensure that the Inquisitor and his entourage would be seen to specifically by this lauded establishment during their time in Orlais. 

Lady de Just oozed matronly hospitality, welcoming Lady Montilyet with open arms and warm congratulations on the Montilyet’s recent successes within its trading circles. Out of the inner circle, only the Inquisitor and Dorian were there to accept the gracious hospitality of their hosetess. Cullen had left to situate lodging for the small company of men who had accompanied them from Skyhold, Leliana to give her unseen agents last minute instructions, Iron Bull was out by the stables seeing to the horses, while Cassandra had been spotted by a distant cousin and was currently squirming like a fish caught in a net of familial obligation. 

“Such a joy it is for me,” Lady de Just enthused upon greeting Josephine with kisses upon both cheeks. “To think our humble lodgings would be of use to the Herald of Andraste! All over Orlais bards are composing ballads in his honor, and he has become a legend in his own time.” 

“We are grateful that you were able to accommodate us with so little notice,” Josephine returned diplomatically, slipping easily into Lady de Just’s version of the Game. 

“It was no trouble, Lady Montilyet. I am, as always, in your service.” It was easy to tell in the way the rheumy old eyes swept the vestibule that Lady de Just was trying to pick out the Inquisitor. Josephine took her by the elbow and led her to where Dorian and the Inquisitor were engaged in quiet conversation on just how badly Cassandra was going to gut them for leaving her to fend for herself while in the clutches of one of her many cousins. 

“If you’ll allow me,” Josephine interjected, sliding smoothly into their conversation with de Just at her side, “May I please introduce the Inquisitor, Lady de Just?”

The warm, welcoming smile that the old matron had worn like armor in her many years of service slipped a fraction; the first time it had done so since she had been appointed to ruler in her meagre little kingdom. Wide eyes took in the seven foot tall qunari who absently scratched at his horns before finally settling on the young man obviously from the north. 

“Lady Montilyet,” Lady de Just stage whispered. “Do you mean to tell me that the Herald of our beloved Andraste is from Tevinter?”

It took a moment for Josephine to rally; the Inquisitor and the advisors, as well as those who had made up his entourage hadn’t been naïve enough to suppose that Orlais would welcome any of them, save Josephine, with open arms and a welcoming attitude. They had hoped, at least, that they wouldn’t have to contend with the obstacle of open hostility until they had stepped foot in the Winter Palace. Lady de Just’s display, while offensive, was not all that surprising. 

“No, Lady de Just,” Josephine hastened to explain. “You are currently addressing Dorian Pavus, the son of one of the most powerful, and oldest families, within Tevinter. He has graciously agreed to lend both his time and his knowledge in aiding the Inquistion with both the Breach and Corypheus.” 

In a land like Orlais, leaning on the right words can open many doors. Josephine’s carefully worded emphasis on Dorian’s parentage and wealth turned Lady de Just’s attitude from enmity to barely veiled contempt. At the very least she had stopped wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something particularly unpleasant. Until, that is, the realization that if the Tevinter heretic was not the famed Inquisitor that meant the taller, horned savage who was staring down at her with lips that kept threatening to quirk up into a grin at the fine lady’s discomfiture was Thedas’ only hope for peace in these dark times.

“The Qunari?” Lady de Just said weakly, turning to Josephine for confirmation. 

The Inquisitor was the epitome gallant chivalry; bowing at the waist as he had been taught in the lessons in etiquette both Josephine and Vivienne had been drilling into his head for the past few weeks. “An honor, my Lady,” he said. “I am Bobert Adaar, at your service.” 

Of all the things that Lady de Just had just been presented with that served as an onslaught to her delicate sensibilities, her mind latched onto the most mundane. 

“Bobert?” she repeated faintly. 

There was no hiding the mischievous glint in the Inquisitor’s eye as he affected a stance of long suffering. “When my parents made their home in the Free Marches, the nuances of human names escaped them. However, they wished to immerse themselves in their new home, and thusly I was named.”

He fell upon social protocol, bowing again and holding out his hand for hers. He had found that people were in general people, no matter what race or creed they followed. By following the outline of social niceties that Lady de Just had initially been expecting from a human Inquisitor, he was hoping that Lady de Just would fall into familiar patterns. He was not disappointed. Though her face was the picture of disgust she allowed him to lightly hold her hand with his fingers. With the proper amount of decorum he raised her fingers to his lips. She claimed her hand back as soon as she felt was appropriate and began to lead them down the cavernous halls of the building to show them to their rooms. The subtle brushing of her hand against the fabric of her skirt did not go unnoticed by any of the party; Josephine was aghast, Dorian was impatient, and Bert simply found the whole masquerade funny. 

“Not all of our party has gathered…” Josephine began to point out as Lady de Just set them at a brisk pace. 

“I will see them to their rooms when they arrive,” Lady de Just informed her stiffly. “But it is a long journey from Skyhold, and I had assumed that you would want to refresh yourselves before dinner.”

“That sounds lovely,” Bert agreed with boyish enthusiasm. He grinned broadly even as Josephine sent him a look of despair. 

The suite of rooms that Lady de Just showed them didn’t quite match up to the lovely opulence the Chateau de la Lionne was known for. They were all grouped together for conveniences sake, but some of the rooms were obviously unfinished and could be barely called liveable. 

“Lady de Just,” Josephine was appalled. “This is certainly not the standard that I would have expected from the de la Lionne.”

“Lady Montilyet,” Lady de Just began, still in that ramrod stiff voice and posture, “You must remember that your request was rather rushed, and that others have made their arrangements far more in advance than you did. It was only because I hold you, your family, and of course,” she gestured toward the Inquistor, “what Orlais owes the Inquisition that I hastened to get these rooms ready at all. If it is not up to your standing, then you are obviously free to find lodging elsewhere.” 

Josephine was a professional in everything that she did, but there was no hiding the way her hands trembled from concealed rage as she eyed down the pompous old windbag. Bert stepped up and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 

“These will do nicely,” he informed Lady de Just. His amiable grin had never faltered. “We are, of course, grateful for any additional work that you had to go through on our account.” 

With a derisive sniff, Lady de Just told them that if there were anything else that they needed, to please inform her and she would see if it could be done before taking her skirts in her hand and walking back the way she came. 

“Insufferable old hag,” Josephine bit out the moment she was out of earshot. 

Bert laughed. “My dear Ambassador, I do believe that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you be uncivil.”

“Civility can be its own weapon,” Josephine muttered, “but against people like that it would be wasted. I believe I’m even angrier than you are!”

Bert shared a look with Dorian. “It’s nothing either of us haven’t heard before,” Dorian explained with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve hear worse at Skyhold from the scullery maids.”

“We’re honored guests of the Duke,” Bert pointed out. “And the Ball is in three days. There’s little she can do in the interim.”

The Inquisitor’s optimism turned out to be unfounded; through her inattention and neglect Lady de Just ensured that the Inquisitor’s stay was as uncomfortable as possible. He wasn’t the only one who suffered; both the Iron Bull and Dorian often had the same complaints. Cullen, Leilana, Josephine and Cassandra were served the best the kitchens had to offer. Roast goose, roasted vegetables, soup done to absolute perfection, rolls that were pulled so fresh from the ovens that steam rose gently over their golden crusts while Dorian, the Iron Bull and the Inquisitor were served bowls of barely edible slop. Chamber pots were accidently forgotten, beds weren’t made, and as the indignities piled up there were ripples even on Bert’s usual placid demeanor. The advisors and Cassandra were fit to be tied. It was only at the insistence of the Inquisitor they did not pursue the issue.

On the day of the Ball, the Iron Bull was relaxing on a chaise in the room he had been forced to share with Dorian. That is, he was relaxing in the sense that he was sitting upright and intently listening to the steady stream of progressively louder litany of complaints, laced with the occasional bit of well-placed profanity, filtering down the hallway. He flinched as the Inquisitor punctuated his rant with saccharine flattery along with a side of mockery. 

“Someone’s getting their ass chewed,” he commented to Dorian.

“Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it?” Dorian replied offhandedly as he checked his visage in the full length mirror to make sure that his moustache had been trimmed to his liking, and he had no unwanted stubble poking through where it wasn’t wanted. “Since our arrival in Halamshiral, it’s been one disaster after another. The Inquisitor is a wealth of gracious forebearance but after the parade of ineptitude he’s been presented with, I’m only surprised it took this long.”

“What do you think set him off, finally?” Iron Bull asked idly, watching as Dorian gave himself a satisfied nod before turning to his formal wear. 

“Aside from forcing members of his party to share rooms? The inedible food?” Dorian was snide as he examined his formal wear. “I believe the last straw came when the Commander reported that our horses have been ill used by the staff.”

“No shit?” Bull stopped listening and regarded Dorian thoughtfully. “Are they okay?”

“No lasting damage,” Dorian replied. “The Commander has decided that our horses will be stabled with the nearby Blacksmith until we leave; no use giving these fools a second chance at killing them off.” 

Bull stretched before getting up off the chaise and retrieving his own uniform for the night. “You know, I’ve always known Orlais wasn’t kind to those who weren’t their own, but this has been kind of ridiculous, don’t you think?” 

“Bert has got the brunt of it,” Dorian pointed out shortly. “I think our gracious host is personally offended the Herald isn’t a nice, normal human of noble lineage. I also am of a mind that if the Herald had been Dalish, or Dwarven she would have borne the shock better.”

“You’ve been handling it well,” Bull joked, straightening his jacket before pulling out the cummerbund and the sash that went with it. 

“I haven’t had anyone refer to me as a Tevinter Snake for almost a week,” Dorian could almost be called chipper as he said it. “Aside from having to room with you, I’ve been barely inconvenienced.”

“I’ve been a model roommate,” Bull said loftily. “You’re the one who snores like a foghorn.” 

“I do not,” Dorian fussed with the cummerbund around his waist. “That is a blatant lie.” 

“Whatever you say,” Bull shrugged. He eyed the other man with a steady eye as Dorian adjusted his uniform, twisting back and forth in front of the full length mirror; one of the few luxurious commodities they had been allowed during their stay. Even that had been a hard won privilege; Josephine had had to lobby hard for Lady de Just to be bothered to take the dusty old thing from storage. If you looked closely enough you could still see the vestieges of cobwebs in the detail work of the old wood. Dorian chose not to look that closely. 

Dorian had been right in one thing; of the three of them, it was Bert who had experienced the worst of what Halamshiral had to offer its visitors. All three of them had received their share of cutting remarks and cold shoulders from the other guests of the Chateau, but as word had spread that the fabled Herald of Andraste was a Qunari, Dorian almost couldn’t recognize him from the rumors. Somehow Bert had morphed from the pleasant, easy going man Dorian had always known him as to a barely house trained beast of burden only capable of single syllable words. Bert had rarely left his room, preferring to talk strategy about the upcoming ball with his Inner Circle. He didn’t have time to either refute or entertain the rumors that had swirled around him and paid them absolutely no mind. The one time he did leave, Dorian had seen a small child, no more than six, standing primly at her mother’s side with her hands folded properly and looking the very picture of childish innocence until she had slanted her young, cruel eyes in Bert’s direction as he had passed and had mooed. 

The gathered adults had laughed. Bert had stopped, looked down on at the little girl, and then her mother who had moved to stand in front of her daughter. No words were exchanged; the mother had stared a challenge at the Inquisitor who merely raised his hand in a mild salute and wished the party a pleasant day. 

The morons had been too gobsmacked to reply that later on the Iron Bull had laughed so hard he’d nearly cracked a rib. 

Dorian had been, if not thrilled, most decidedly elated that Bert had chosen him to go along as part of his entourage. Despite the cause for which Dorian most whole heartedly believed in, there were distinct comforts of home that he missed dearly. He had developed callouses on his hands from the manual labor that had gone into making Skyhold liveable again. There were far too many refugees and too much to do for the Inquisition to assign personal servants; if he wanted his bed made he had learned to do it himself. No one attended to him or his toiletries in the morning, or saw to his wardrobe in the evening. He had learned a mediocum of independence while he had been there, and while he could almost appreciate the lesson in hubris that he had subjected himself to, he had been looking forward to being among culture, and the privileges that it entailed, again. 

The upper class of Halamshiral had simply ignored Dorian. They couldn’t be bothered to look past his tan skin and his magical talent and refused to acknowledge him as a human being, much less their equal. No red carpets or bowls of fruits, or even scintillating conversation could be found anywhere no matter how hard he had looked. The only difference between here and Skyhold was that Skyhold had a better library. 

Dorian had spent most of his time in the company of the Bull. Bull was frequently annoying, but he was also familiar. Dorian had taken solace in their banter, as well as the strategic planning. The bedrock of the threat that Corypheus posed was a constant reminder of his purpose in the south of Thedas, and that he was able to contribute a great deal in eliminating that threat had gotten him through the worst of the abuses he had suffered through at skyhold, and those lessons, more than any of the others, continued to serve him well in Orlais. 

“If you keep messing with that thing, you’re gonna tear it,” Bull said, breaking Dorian’s concentration. Dorian blinked his eyes in surprise and looked down at his hands; the blue fabric of his cummerbund was gripped tightly in his hands and pulled taut. 

“I must have been woolgathering,” Dorian muttered, turning around in front of the mirror to work the fabric around his waist. 

“Woolgathering?” Bull chortled. “You’re picking up the flavor of the local language; that’s a Ferelden term.”

“Well of course,” was the dignified reply. “Despite our locale deep within the Frostback mountains, we are still technically within the borders of the Ferelden kingdom. And we have many Fereldans staying with us. I’ve always been quite open to exposing myself to other cultures.” 

“I’m sure,” Bull snorted. “Do you need help with that thing?”

“Hardly,” Dorian scoffed. “I’m quite adept at dressing myself, thank you.” 

“Just an offer, big man,” Bull shrugged. 

“Of course I’m capable of dressing myself,” Dorian muttered. “Who else has been picking out my fabulously stunning wardrobe these past few months? I’m sure I can manage to get myself into this monstrosity of fashion on my own.” 

“Of course you can.” 

“Even if it is hideous.” 

“Most uniforms are.” 

“It’s red! Red and gold. And blue! Who chose this color palette? It offends the very senses. My old Nan back home would have done better,” Dorian scoffed. “And this sash is ridiculous.” 

He thumbed the fabric draping over his shoulder; it hung limply around his torso, ill fitted and far too loose. 

“We’ll be a laughingstock, of course,” Dorian continued to vent, half under his breath. “No one will take us seriously. The donations will stop coming in, and any power that the Inquisition has miraculously managed to gather will dissipate like so much dust. All because of someone’s poor decision to make this stupid sash as part of our ensemble.” 

“I think—“ Bull tried to interject, but Dorian waved him off with a careless gesture. 

“I am not an idiot who is unable to grasp the simple concept of fastenings,” he stated firmly, and then turned his head in a frantic search at his feet. “Where is the fastening that holds this monstrosity together?” 

Bull stood, walking over to where Dorian’s uniform had been hanging. After a moment or two of looking, he knelt to pick up the pin that held the whole thing together neatly, and out of sight. 

“Allow me,” Bull loomed over Dorian, taking the material that draped loosely over Dorian’s upper body and carefully began to unwind it. 

“Uniforms are ugly things,” he commented as he measured out the first part of the sash, sliding the tail through the strap on the shoulder, kneeling at Dorian’s feet to adjust both ends until they were equal. “But they give a sense of belonging. Even in a sea of strangers, looking for someone who looks like you can give you reassurance.” 

“How novel,” Dorian remarked snidely, handing Bull the brooch that held the sash in place. “Comfort in conformity. How very qunari of you.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with finding security in the familiar,” Bull gently rebuked as he stood up. He took the rest of the blue satin firmly from Dorian’s hands. “We all do it.” 

Dorian stilled as he felt the warm hand of Bull on his hip, holding the material in place as Bull reached around with his massive arms to begin to wrap the belt around Dorian’s waist. As Bull worked the material into a cummerbund, he continued to talk. 

“There’s nothing wrong with asking for others for help either. That’s the whole point of why we’re here, right? And if we can’t rely on each other, then how is the rest of the world gonna be able to rely on us? All these people with their masks? They’re nothing. They don’t mean anything; they’re tag-a-longs only able to watch from the sidelines because they’re too caught up in their petty dramas to be able to do anything worthwhile and meaningful. They’re more concerned about the latest scandals than the big giant hole in the sky, or the asshole who put it there. If they’re missing something that obvious, can you imagine everything else they’re missing out on?” 

“They don’t look at it that way,” Dorian pretended that his voice hadn’t lost any of its edge. 

“They don’t matter,” Bull’s hands stilled. Dorian could feel the heat of Bull’s arms around his body. It was the first time he felt warm since he had come to this frost bitten barbaric south side of Thedas. “They don’t make you who you are.” A few minor adjustments, and then Bull was taking a step back. He nodded once toward the mirror. “Go on and take a look.” 

The colors were still atrocious, but at least the damn thing fit. Dorian turned this way and that in front of the glass, making sure that every button was in its place, and that nothing was amiss. 

“At least I won’t be a laughingstock on my own,” he continued to fuss. 

“You look fine to me.” Bull leered at him. 

“Everything looks fine to you,” he sniped. 

“Not true. I have a fine, discerning taste,” Bull defended. “Tell you what. When we get out of this latest mess, I’ll take you to the nearest tavern and buy you a drink.”  
“Is that an incentive, or bribery?” Dorian muttered. 

“Whatever it takes, big guy,” Bull shrugged.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
